


Our Messy Flat

by magesticgummibear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Internal Conflict, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Oneshot, Sherlock's dirty underwear, dont know what love is?, happiness, magesticgummibear, our messy flat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magesticgummibear/pseuds/magesticgummibear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A twist in the johnlock love story.<br/>"The longer he held his breath, the longer his sigh would be. He knew that. Even so, John waited just a little longer before releasing the frustrated breath of air past his lips.<br/>Sherlock was watching Doctor Who.<br/>The world’s only Consulting Detective sat in his arm chair with his knees drawn to his chest and his long fingers gripping his ankles. His hair was ruffled, his bed clothes were twisted and his eyes were opened just a little wider as he stared at the small screen."</p><p>The flat is a mess, and Sherlock would rather watch crappy telly then deal with it while John is out. Just watch, mind. He didn’t comment, or point anything out that was wrong or even blink in the ad breaks. John was worried and kind of nervous about conforting his flatmate. But it may just well be the best thing he even did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Messy Flat

**Author's Note:**

> The result of watching multiple seasons in a short amount of time and unmotivation to do homework leads me to ... this
> 
> This was first posted on Quotev and it got a fairly good response ~ i want to put it here as well because this is a more fan-fictiony place... or something like that
> 
> Just another johnlock oneshot with fluffffff :3 oh yesh the fluff

The longer he held his breath, the longer his sigh would be. He knew that. Even so, John waited just a little longer before releasing the frustrated breath of air past his lips.  
Sherlock was watching Doctor Who.  
The world’s only Consulting Detective sat in his arm chair with his knees drawn to his chest and his long fingers gripping his ankles. His hair was ruffled, his bed clothes were twisted and his eyes were opened just a little wider as he stared at the small screen.  
“Sherlock, I thought you were going to tidy the flat while I was out.” John looked around. The sudden increase of cases had caused their small flat to be even messier then previously. Books, papers and mail covered the coffee table and spilled onto the floor. Scientific equipment was spread out haphazardly over the kitchen table and even lined the kitchen benches. Somehow, about half of Sherlock’s wardrobe had migrated on and around the armchairs.  
Sherlock hadn’t moved. John tried again.  
“Sherlock, you were meant to tidy up!” he said, a little louder. Sherlock was still watching the telly. John sighed again, and then walked into the kitchen. He placed the groceries on the floor after failing to find any bench space. He opened the fridge to put the milk away, and then bent to open a cupboard to put away some canned corn and gasped.  
Walking swiftly back into the lounge room, he spluttered, “Sherlock! Seriously! We need to get a hold of this mess! There is a family of roaches living in the cupboards! We have spiders making webs in all the corners! And … is that your dirty underwear?”  
Sherlock finally turned around, locking his gaze on John. “Did you get my cocca?”  
“Cocca?”  
“Yes, cocca. I asked you if you could get me some half an hour ago.”  
“I have been out for hours. I just got back… and you… were meant… to clean!” John forced out his words slowly, trying to keep calm.  
“So is that a no?”  
“Yes, it’s a no. Because I wasn’t here!”  
“Shame.” Sherlock rotated his body back towards the telly. John did have to admit, he was a little worried about his flatmate. For the past few weeks, he seemed distracted whenever they were on a case. Sometimes he even missed little details and it was only that John saw them that they were able to solve it. He had been watching whatever crappy show was on television and he didn’t comment, or point anything out that was wrong or even blink in the ad breaks. He just watched. As well as that, he sat in a chair surrounded by his clothes and dirty underwear.  
John leant against the doorframe that leads into the kitchen; his anger from coming home to a messy house evaporating, and studied Sherlock. He hoped he was just going through a low, so he hadn’t asked him about it. John knew that everyone can go through a bad spot every now and then without an actual trigger. But he hadn’t expected Sherlock, of all people, to have one that lasted so long.  
As he watched, Sherlock’s broad shoulders gave a little rise and John could just hear a small release of breath as they fell again. John felt something give inside of him. Maybe Sherlock did want to talk about it, yet as far as he knew Sherlock didn’t like to vent his emotions to other people. Then again, he didn’t shut down like this if things were okay.  
John walked in and sat in his armchair, opposite Sherlock. In the harsh light of the telly, John could see the bags under his flatmates eyes and the slightly downturned angle of his eyebrows, as if he was thinking. John drew a breath to speak.  
“My underwear isn’t dirty,” Sherlock said before he could begin. He slowly moved his head to lock gazes with John. “I wouldn’t show that to you even if you asked.” A tired smile appeared on his lips which grew into a chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling. John chuckled to, but his sounded more of relief. Sherlock wasn’t completely gone.  
“So, why are you sitting in your clean underwear?” he asked, glad the mood was slightly lighter.  
“Mrs Hudson. She washed for me,” Sherlock replied, before his gaze returned to the telly. John sighed.  
“Sherlock, listen,” he started. Sherlock looked away from the telly again, but his face had returned to the dull, emotionless pane it had been for a while. The eye crinkles from his bad joke were gone. The smile was non-existent. He studied John without a word, so John continued.  
“Are you ok? It just recently, you have seemed a little… down. I can’t help but feel a little worried-“  
“Why do you care?” Sherlock interrupted.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Why?”  
“Why what?”  
“Why do you care?”  
“Care? I didn’t say that. I said I was-“  
“Worried, yes. I heard you. That’s a form of caring. And I’m asking you why.” Sherlock spoke quickly, robotically. John hesitated. He wasn’t expecting to be interrogated.  
“Well, because, I mean, you’re my friend. My flatmate. And you seem to have something on your mind, lately, and I thought maybe I, ah, could help, or, something,” John stuttered. Sherlock had been eyeing him the whole time. The intensity made him uneasy.  
“What could you do to help me?” Sherlock responded icily. At that moment, when John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, he saw things he hadn’t seen there before. Anger. Frustration. Confusion. John could connect them to all the changes on Sherlock’s face. New lines and shadows. But for some reason, that lack of faith Sherlock had in John hurt. This hurt was unexpected, but John felt it. His features hardened and he stood abruptly.  
“Nothing,” he exhaled. “Nothing at all.” He walked to the door to leave. If Sherlock didn’t want his help, then he sure as hell wasn’t going to get it.  
“John, wait,” Sherlock said, his voice a little softer as he got up to follow John.  
“I’m going out,” John said shortly, ignoring him, as he opened the door. Sherlock reached over John’s right shoulder and pushed the door shut.  
“John.”  
“Sherlock. I’m going out. Let go of the door,” John said without turning around. Sherlock’s arm didn’t move.  
“No, John,” he said, his voice deep and rumbly.  
“Sherlock! Let me out!” John turned around violently, ready to stand up to the bigger man, but he hadn’t realised how closely he was standing behind him and he found himself uncomfortably close to Sherlock. His eyes widened slightly with shock. Sherlock was looking down so his face was even closer to John’s than if he had been standing normally. After a moment, John remembered that he could move and jerked backwards against the door, Sherlock arm now over his left shoulder.  
“Just let me out,” John said, avoiding eye contact. He turned around again and gave the door handle a stubborn rattle. Sherlock sighed, his breath tickling the back of John’s neck. Sherlock dropped his arm, but instead of letting John out, he wrapped both arms around his shoulders and buried his head into the side of John’s neck, his curly hair brushing his cheek. A strange sensation filled the shorter man’s stomach, like bubbles.  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said so softly that John almost didn’t hear him. His heart gave a thump.  
“You’re what?”  
“Sorry! Ok!” Sherlock dropped his arms away from John and stormed into the middle of the room. He spun dramatically with his arms in the air, then faced John armed with an accusing finger.  
“Actually,” he declared. “I shouldn’t be sorry! You should be sorry! You’re the one who did this to me!” John eyed his flatmate in a state of disbelief; his heart was still hammering painfully in his chest from the unexpected contact and all thoughts of leaving forgotten.  
“I should be sorry? What did I do to you?” he asked, almost annoyed at how Sherlock was so quick to blame him for something, and as if he should know what he did.  
“Emotions, John!” Sherlock exclaimed. “These petty feelings that I thought I understood! But then you come along, and BOOM!” Sherlock made explosion gestures around his head with his hands. “I have never cared so much for anyone before without knowing why! I mean, seriously! How can a person’s presence change my concentration level! It’s ridiculous!” Suddenly, Sherlock stopped, having realised what he had just revealed to John. He felt self-conscious; another unfamiliar emotion.  
“I mean, um,” Sherlock stammered and drew his hands close to his chest. John felt strange. It was hard to describe. His mind felt slow, his heart still pounded and the bubbles in his stomach floated around in an unsettling sensation. But the strangest feeling of all was the tug in the corner of his lips that formed a smile.  
He rubbed the back of his neck and took a pace towards Sherlock, whose face was flushed pink as he studied the floor very intensely.  
“Ok, Sherlock,” John said, a playful smile on his lips. “What am I sorry for, again?” Sherlock glared at John through slitted eyes.  
“Nothing,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the pile of clothes. “I should clean this up.” He stooped to gather the pile into something he could pick up with to arms. His shirt was drawn up slightly exposing a slither of skin. John slowly made his way over to his blushing flatmate.  
“Sherlock,” he said softly. Sherlock stopped.  
“This place really is a mess,” Sherlock muttered. John placed a steady hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
“Sherlock,” he said again. “You can tell me. You know I’ll never figure it out myself.” A small smile appeared on both their lips.  
“That’s true,” he agreed. He had a tall pile of laundry cradled in his arms, which he carted to his room, followed by John.  
“What did you mean by that little speech?” John pressed, leaning against the door frame watching as Sherlock attempted to sort through his clothes. He was enjoying Sherlock’s current state of fluster just a little too much.  
“I’ll leave you to your deductions.”  
“Sherlock,” John sighed, clicking his tongue.  
“Fine,” Sherlock said, burring his face in his hands. “I don’t know, John. I just don’t know.”  
“How can you not know?” John asked, surprised. Sherlock peeked at John through his fingers, his face once again flushed, and then he flopped down on his bed, limbs spread out like a star fish, staring up at the ceiling. He sighed instead of speaking. John walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.  
“Can you tell me what you do know?” he asked, his gaze resting on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock glanced at John, then back at the ceiling before curling into a ball. He reached out slowly and took one of John’s hands and held it close to his chest, hugging it. John’s hand felt warm where it was, like it was meant to be there. He tightened his grip slightly on Sherlock’s fingers, hoping to give him encouragement to continue.  
“I don’t know much about romance,” he stated. “Nor much about friendships, but I do know that you… are something. I don’t know what. It’s hard to explain.”  
John felt his heart pick up pace again. It was true that he had no idea if Sherlock had any past relationship, so he didn’t know if he was interested in men, women, both or neither. It was entirely possible that Sherlock had never been attracted towards anyone before.  
“John,” Sherlock said quietly, tugging on his arm a little.  
“Hm? Yeah?” John answered automatically. He looked down to meet Sherlock’s eyes. They were gazing back up at him, bright, intelligent and wondrous. Sherlock sat up, crossing his legs and edging closer to John before he spoke again.  
“What does love feel like?”  
John was awfully caught off guard by that question. Sherlock was asking him about… love. His heart thumped painfully. He breathed in slowly, unsure how to respond.  
“Well, there’s lots of kinds of love, isn’t there?” he pointed out nervously. Why was he so nervous? Sherlock was opening up to him, showing him the side that no one has ever seen, because he hid it away and built many walls and fashioned many locks around it. John was nervous because Sherlock was offering him a key to those locks. A key that he had guarded his whole life.  
“Well, yeah,” Sherlock said. “But what does real love, true love as some people call it. What does that feel like?”  
“Honestly,” John started. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I have ever been in love before.”  
“Really?” Sherlock asked, surprised. He leaned a little closer. “Surely you have been in love before.”  
“Nah,” John said, shrugging. He was very much aware that Sherlock was still holding his hand, and his heart was thumping as the price. Sherlock dropped his head onto John’s shoulder and exhaled.  
“This emotion stuff is exhausting. It’s very outlandish,” he said. John had to smile at that.  
“It is indeed,” he said, reflecting on how many times he had tried to figure Sherlock out and how many times he had failed.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Yes?”  
“Have you ever been in love before?”  
“Before now? No.”  
“I see,” John said, his suspicion confirmed about Sherlock’s love life. Then he turns abruptly towards Sherlock’s sleepy form on his shoulder, a lock of tickling his throat, after he fully understood what was just revealed to him. “Wait. What do you mean before now?”  
Sherlock glanced up, bleary eyed. He really was exhausted. “Did I say that?”  
“Yes.”  
“When?”  
“Just now!” John exclaimed in a whisper.  
“I did?”  
“You did!”  
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and then sat up straight and grabbed John collar, shaking him slightly. “See what you do to me? I lose my concentration when I’m alone with you!” John placed his hand over Sherlock’s to stop him shaking.  
“You…” John could finish. His mind was overwhelmed.  
“Ok, John,” Sherlock said, twisting his hand so it fit in John’s grip. “Maybe I do know.” His face was more red than pink now. Even the tips of his ears were coloured. His eyes had a slight sparkle to them that might have been tears. With his spare arm, John looped it around Sherlock and pulled him into a hug. Their legs got slightly tangled from the awkward angle, but neither of them cared. Sherlock nudged his lips closer to John’s ear.  
“I think I might love you,” he whispered. “I just don’t know what love is.”  
John felt his face drop, not from horror or dread, but shock. All this time, Sherlock was having an internal battle with himself over him. Sherlock couldn’t concertante when he was around him. Sherlock began to question that he might love him. John Hamish Watson.  
The bubbles were back with an oddly pleasant storm. John hadn’t felt this in a while. He hadn’t felt happiness like this since before he served time in the war. And it was magical.  
“Sherlock, I-“ John couldn’t continue because Sherlock wrapped his arms around the smaller man’s torso and hugged him tightly.  
“Don’t speak. Please don’t crush me just yet,” Sherlock begged.  
“No, I don’t want to crush you,” he assured. “I’m just, I’m just… so… bloody… happy.”  
“Happy?” Sherlock inquired. John chuckled.  
“Yeah,” he wondered out loud. “ Maybe this is what love feels like.”  
“What love feels like,” Sherlock repeated softly. He drew back bit so he could see John’s face. “You look different.”  
John smiled playfully. “And you look awful. When was the last time you slept properly?” Sherlock yawned, exposing all his teeth. John allowed himself to really study his face and the way it moved. Sherlock had an interesting face.  
“I’m not sure,” Sherlock admitted. Once again, John found himself noticing the bags under his flatmates eyes. He smiled softly.  
“We’ll clean the flat tomorrow,” he decided, before gently pushing Sherlock down to sleep. He went to get up to leave, but Sherlock held onto both his hands.  
“You need to sleep, too,” he murmured, then yanked John down to lie facing him, causing him to yelp. But he stilled when Sherlock tugged his hands close to his chest and brushes his lips over his own. The bubbles whirled and bloomed in a cheerful rush around his insides and a small, happy curve shaped his lips. When John held Sherlock’s gaze he forgot that it they hadn’t eaten dinner, he forgot he was still wearing his shoes and he forgot what it was like not to be happy. And then they fell asleep, just like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Umm, so please tell me what you thought, both good and bad, but please be gentle with me. I am only amateur, but always looking to improve.
> 
> Also, it was pointed out to me that this reads as if Doctor Who is a 'crappy telly show'. What i mean by that is that Sherlock is watching what ever was on, not that DW is crap. (i is a whovian shhhhh)
> 
> AND FINALLY, if i was to do a Blackice RotG Highschool Art Club AU multichapter... thoughts?


End file.
